The Delilah Complex by MJ Rose Read Free Book Online Page A

before. As I explained when we met, the society is very concerned about opening up to anyone on the outside. We’re simply asking you to keep everything that we talk about in our group-therapy sessions in the strictest confidence—
    I put the letter down and stood up. I didn’t walk into the kitchen so much as stomp in.
Well no, Shelby
, I was saying to her in my head.
No one, in the six years that I have been in private practice as a sex therapist with the Butterfield Institute, has ever asked me to sign any kind of confidentiality agreement
. I couldn’t even give her—or the society—the benefit of the doubt; I knew several of them had been in therapy before. They had to know that what happens between a doctor and her patients is privileged. Besides, I’d explained it to her. Damn, I’d almost gotten killed keeping the confidence of a patient last June, not going to the police when I thought she might be in danger.
    My hand was shaking as I poured myself a glass of wine. I breathed in the fruity aroma as I took my first sip and, carrying the glass, went back to the couch in the den to reread the letter, finishing it this time.
     
                   We are all grateful that you’ve agreed to help us and we are looking forward to our first meeting this coming week. By way of introduction, I’ve included a video. Like everything else about us, we are asking that you view it in private.
                   I trust you, Dr. Snow. Just meeting you once, I know we’ve made the right decision.
    Sincerely,
    Shelby Rush
    There was another sheet of paper in the envelope. The confidentiality agreement. I put that down without even glancing at it. I was intrigued by the Scarlet Society and by Shelby, and had been looking forward to the challenge of working with them, but I wouldn’t sign legal papers for any patient. It was insulting.
    Trying to let go of my resentment, making an effort to figure out why their request was making me angrier than it should have, I grabbed the video and slammed it into our VCR. Obviously, I wasn’t letting go of the feelings.
    A few seconds into the tape, the black screen gave way to a shot of an elaborate living room. Crystal sconces glittered, gilt frames glinted in the light. The room was filled with lush velvet couches, oversized chairs and exquisite Oriental rugs in subtle shades of blues and yellows. Opulent bouquets of roses and rubrum lilies sat on end tables. I could almost smell their sweet vanilla scent.
    Loud rock music blared in the background. The harsh, driving beat of the Rolling Stones’ “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” was antithetical to the genteel decorations of the grand room.
    The camera held steady until the French doors opened and a crowd flowed in.
    It’s funny how you see what you expect to see. I knew right away that I was looking at a tape of a costume ball— everyone was wearing elaborate masks that covered the upper parts of their faces. The women were ornately dressed, well coiffed and draped with brilliant jewelry—real or not, it didn’t matter. Rubies and emeralds and diamonds glittered on ears and necks, fingers and wrists.
    I was conscious that there was something different about what I was looking at, but it took a few seconds for me to realize that the women’s gowns were not just cut low but designed to bare their breasts. Nipples were rouged, skin was powdered and often sprinkled with sparkles.
    As the women continued making their way into the room, the camera moved in on them. Many of the gowns had slits up the front, revealing that they weren’t wearing underwear.
    The mood at the party was joyful. They greeted one another with air kisses, often whispering and then laughing.
    The music segued into a Beatles song, “Love, Love Me Do,” as tuxedoed male waiters furrowed through the crowd offering canapés and flutes of champagne.
    Two women—one wearing a cat mask, the other wearing one decorated with peacock